Bet You Thought You'd Seen The Last Of Me
by TeamHarry95
Summary: SPOILERS FOR 3x01: One-shot surrouding John's dynamic thought process upon the surprise return of his best friend and other half. Friendship, John's POV, set throughout The Empty Hearse. Enjoy!


Summary: SPOILERS FOR 3x01: John's dynamic thought process upon the surprise return of his best friend and other half. Friendship, John's POV, set throughout The Empty Hearse. Enjoy!

Author's Note: I was inspired by the new episode to write something so here's what I came up with at 4 am. Hope you enjoy it and please leave any reviews (even critiques and criticisms are welcomed)!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, you know the rest.

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"No, look. Seriously. Could you just -?" John finally looked up at the persistent, oblivious waiter.

…It was just another dream, one like all the others he had had since- This one was different though, because John wasn't sleeping; he was at dinner with Mary. And all the other dreams took place at the same building where it- The doctor never saw him anywhere else.

This was strange, very strange indeed. John looked back and forth between the waiter and his soon-to-be-fiancée (if all went according to plan), mouth slightly agape.

Perhaps it was the nerves, considering he was in mid-proposal to Mary, or he had somehow been drugged, or he was simply running a fever, but John Watson was _not _staring at the real man who had been dead for two years, alive and well. It couldn't be.

_He is dead. I watched him jump. I saw his body and visited his grave. I am dreaming. It's all a dream. Snap out of it, John._

The man holding the wine then spoke, without the French accent he had previously adopted. "Interesting thing, a tuxedo…" John looked at Mary to rid himself of any false hope that this man who bore a striking resemblance to his old friend was actually him. The man kept talking in that deep, crisp voice that was so painfully familiar, which did not help John's no-false-hope mentality.

_It isn't. Couldn't possibly be. No way. Dead._

"…and anonymity to waiters." And John was standing, but he didn't remember rising from his chair. Everything felt like a dreamscape and he supposed it was, because that was the only sensible explanation for this impossible situation.

"John? John, what is it?" Mary said anxiously and John didn't feel like he could speak, let alone form a comprehensible sentence. Even if he could speak, he wouldn't know what to say. Is there a handbook called "Conversation Starters and Icebreakers for When Your Best Friend May or May Not Have Somehow Come Back from His Supposed Death"? Even if there was, John would have more likely thrown it at this imposter's head rather than read it. He needed to know if this was a dream and if it wasn't, why some maniac put on this cruel charade.

"Well, short version: Not. Dead."

It was like John's mind exploded. He had been forcing himself to believe that this was all a dream, hallucination or sick joke, because he absolutely refused to experience the grief and mourning and anger and emptiness and confusion and loneliness and heartache all over again...

"So," He wasn't sure how much time had passed before the waiter wiped away his fake moustache and said with a little smirk, "does yours rub off too?"

…but Sherlock was real, alive, breathing, physically standing in front of him.

And something told John he was here to stay this time.

The only thing that mattered to John in that moment, after knowing Sherlock was alive and here with him, was hearing the best damned explanation the word had to offer. He began what was sure to be a lengthy and enlightening conversation, and slowly stammered out, "Two years. I thought - I thought you were dead, hm? Now you let me grieve…how could you do that? _How?"_

"Wait, before you do anything you might regret, um, one question – let me ask one question." And he motioned to John's moustache, not even trying to contain his amusement. "…Are you really going to keep that?"

And John pounced, releasing two years' worth of grief and frustration and unanswered questions, as well as overwhelming relief, as he did so. The ability to physically grab hold of Sherlock and force him to the ground brought John comfort, in a strange way. The tangibility of the man's legendary coat collar that John grabbed on to was added proof that he didn't need but accepted without complaint.

The second time he hit the consulting detective was purely for the two years of unnecessary pain he had gone through and the lies he had been told by Molly, Mycroft and all those involved in the staged death. Throughout the night, John was progressively becoming less shocked and more outraged at the details he was learning, but the root emotion was consistent: relief. Sherlock's return was the breath of fresh air that John needed in order to really live again and as far as he was concerned, there was no better feeling in the world.

The third and final blow was entirely deserved. Sherlock didn't really complain and John didn't need to explain. They went their separate ways for the evening but both men, whether they acknowledged it or not, finally filled a tiny part of themselves that had been missing for two years. John lay awake that night figuring out the best way to act in the next week or two, in hopes of slight pay-back. His actions had to be cold, selfish and get the message across, which was only fair, but John knew deep down that it was alright. Sherlock was alive and John was going to get back to work with him. All would be back to normal now.

Well, as normal as life can be when you're partners with the rises-from-the-dead, over-deductive, socially inept, shoots-the-wall-for-fun, high-functioning sociopath, consulting detective, genius, Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
